


Symbiotic

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2011-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t particularly care for sex but he does appreciate the silence that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbiotic

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Afterwards, after the pounding of his own blood in his ears dies down, there’s always an odd, almost eerie silence, after he’s caught his breath and rearranged his limbs more comfortably, or at least stretched out his legs into a more comfortable position. He finds that he does stretch his legs out almost involuntarily at any rate, which is helpful because it lets him avoid the otherwise inevitable cramp. For some reason he can’t seem to do much with his hands though. He does stop clawing at the bedding of course but he can never find the energy to lift that hand from the sheets, so it rests, lax, by his side, which at least has the benefit of loosening the tension in that arm. His other hand curls into a loose fist and, depending on which way he lets his head fall, his fingers are close enough to brush his now dry and bitten lips. For some reason, during proceedings, he has a tendency to turn that wrist outwards, towards his partner, while he contorts the fingers of his hand into a motion that must be similar to the other one. He doesn’t think that he ever quite clutches at Lestrade’s shoulder but that’s probably because he’s mostly straining away from him by that point, retreating from the sensation, the intensity.

Not that any of those thoughts cross Sherlock’s mind afterwards. Not for at least a few hours or so at any rate. He finds that his mind doesn’t work afterwards, that everything stills and condenses until all that he can focus on is the sound of his own breathing and the very pedestrian feel of his own body. After the panic, the overwhelming _sensation_ , that sharp moment when everything collapses in on itself and he forgets everything, all the details, all the facts, even his own name, there is always a complete absence of sense to anything. He breathes, his body rearranges itself more comfortably, but there are no thoughts at all. There is no reason or logic and no urge to impose it either. He simply exists in a static, motionless, irrational state. Behind the darkness of his eyelids he’s barely aware of even the closest thing to him and in those moments, those restful, silent, moments, such disinterest really doesn’t matter.

The outside world only imposes when warm fingers brush his skin, when a hand smoothes his hair away from his forehead. Lestrade will be propped up on an elbow at that point, watching him, examining his still features, but even then, it takes Sherlock some time to open his eyes. Eyes open he still stares at nothing.

“Too much?” Lestrade asks softly.

It’s almost too much effort to focus, to slide his gaze sideways to fix on that concerned face.

“A little.” He whispers in reply.

Sometimes it is too much. Sometimes it’s too overwhelming. The deafening roar of his pulse in his ears, the harsh sounds of his own breathing, even the struggle to escape sensation and, at the same time, the helpless tumble into it. Sometimes it’s more than he can take, more than he can want or even comprehend. Every time it is always too much. These are degrees of madness of course but they’re only variations in how such a simple, _human_ , act can render him insensible.

Mostly he doesn’t care for sex anyway. It’s just something that occurs, that’s sought out by other people. Whether it happens to him or not doesn’t interest him much. Occasionally, he supposes that it might be an interesting idea and there’s always something so very compelling about Lestrade’s desires that persuade him to try. He doesn’t object, doesn’t really mind but nor does he require it either. They probably have sex something like once a month, if even that, and Sherlock doesn’t at all mind that Lestrade might go seeking it elsewhere in the meantime. The physical act itself is alien to him, but the aftermath, he certainly doesn’t mind. The silence, the incomprehension, the complete absence of thought is a nice change to his usual existence after all. The actual act of sex is in many ways terrifying because he can feel his own loss of control, he can track the frantic erosion of his thoughts. He can pinpoint the very moment when his awareness shrinks down into sensation, when the feel of Lestrade’s hands, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his body become the only points of reference in his universe. It’s always terrifying then, in those last moments before the inexorable slide into madness, though perhaps, he always ponders later, he needs, sometimes, to be overwhelmed by that helplessness too.

He struggles to sit up and kick away the bedcovers that now stifle him, can’t seem to manage it himself, and lets Lestrade help him up. In the darkness he sits up, listens to Lestrade shift closer and isn’t surprised by the warm hand that begins to rub, soothingly, along his back. It takes him a while to realise that his eyelashes are damp and when he raises a hand to wipe away the tears, it trembles. Lestrade says nothing as Sherlock grinds the heels of both hands against his eyes. Not that the tears worry him, they’re an adrenal response, nothing more, but they do worry Lestrade, every time.

“Lower back.” He orders, before Lestrade can say something foolish.

The flat of Lestrade’s hand is a welcome warmth against the small of his back. Both the pressure and warmth help ease the muscular tension that always bothers him after his body’s been so contorted. He’s fairly limber after all, and that seems to translate into overextension of the lumbar spine on these occasions. His body moves of its own accord under these circumstances, and that always involves an involuntary arching of his back, so that his hips press down at the very point where his rational mind would suggest that he ought to pull away.

After a while, they lie back down again. Sherlock’s head on Lestrade’s chest and Lestrade’s arm around his shoulders. Sherlock splays a hand out across Lestrade’s chest and Lestrade squeezes his shoulder. They’ll remain like that for some time. What passes through Lestrade’s mind, Sherlock doesn’t know because he himself has no particular thoughts to focus on at all. His mind is a blank. He notes the feel of skin beneath his hand, the twist of his legs, the sound of his own breathing but little else. In his mind there is only silence: no thought, no action. It’s peaceful and empty inside his head, and that alone is worth the absolute loss of control that precedes it.

He doesn’t _need_ to forget everything of course, doesn’t really require complete mental immolation but, it is a pleasant enough respite from everything else. There’s something truly _functional_ about their arrangement after all. Lestrade gets the guarantee of regular enough sex, in between whatever else he does to get it elsewhere, and Sherlock’s mind shuts down, if only for a few hours. It’s a particularly comfortable arrangement because, for all his sentimentality, Lestrade understands that Sherlock wouldn’t want, wouldn’t need, anything else. Lestrade is fond and tender, which Sherlock needs if he’s going to give up any portion of his self-control, but he isn’t overbearing or demanding about it. Theirs is a symbiotic arrangement where both gain from the liaison, and neither would want anything more than what they get.

 

Of course, that’s a little hard to explain to outsiders, such as a new flatmate.

“What!” John is suitably outraged.  
“He fucks me and I lie there and take it. What’s so hard to understand?”

In the doorway, Lestrade drags a hand across his face with a groan.

“What? It’s so bloody simple!”

Lestrade crosses the room and carefully takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his.

“Do you remember that conversation we had about ‘inside’ voices?”  
“What-“  
“I think half of Baker Street now know that you lie back and think of England while I-“  
“But I don’t! That’s the point. I don’t have to _think_ about anything!”

Behind them, John’s expression changes from murderous to the all too familiar one that suggests that he really doesn’t want to know.


End file.
